A Man Out of Time
by darthsydious
Summary: Sherlock Holmes of 1880's England accidentally steps into 2017 London, into Molly Hooper's flat. He's bound to make some very important realizations about himself. Sherlolly.


"Hello."

Sherlock Holmes, the world's first (and only) Consulting Detective felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Something was wrong, and not merely because he was falling behind on his case.

He looked around the flat with some alarm, at the furniture, at the floor, the shoes by the door, and at the woman standing in the doorway to what appeared to be a kitchen (or laboratory) or sorts.

"What is this, Sherlock, dress up?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The getup," the woman gestured to his apparel. "It's nice, very effective, looks authentic too." She smoothed down the shoulders of his coat, a familiar gesture he found himself savoring. "I can't imagine what kind of case requires all this," she gave him a once over, he detected approval. "But it's nice." She smiled brightly at him. "If you're going by proper Victorian standards though, you'd better take your topper off, rude to keep it on the house."

Sherlock Holmes obeyed, recalling his manners.

"I expect you're here for tea?" she asked, heading back through to the other room.

Sherlock was at a loss. This woman was under the assumption they were acquaintances, more than that, going by her familiar nature with him. Never mind whatever bloody hell time portal he must have stepped through (he could practically hear Watson shouting from His London, asking him how he knew what had happened). In truth, Sherlock did not know what had happened, obviously some time rift. A lapse of some proportion that was verging on Lewis Carroll's territory. All that was missing was a looking glass.

The sound of boiling water brought him to his senses, and he realized he had not answered this woman.

"Yes. Please."

"Go on and sit down then," she laughed. "You know where everything is." She stopped suddenly. "DO you want chocolate digestives or-oh! Are we doing things properly? I'm sorry," she came back and took his hat, gloves and cane, setting them on the coat rack. "This way Mr. Holmes," she smiled charmingly and turned on her heels, hips swaying as she led him through.

"Thank you," he followed her to the sitting room and waited for her to indicate which seat would be appropriate.

She went back to the kitchen. "So, go on, what's this case about?"

Sherlock was still trying to wrap his head around what was happening, what had happened to him, if he'd need to form a new persona in this version of London. "It's um…a murder."

"Oo I see, is it Mr. Mcreedy after all?"

"No. Something else," he murmured, accepting the mug from her. She pulled out a device from her pocket, tapping on it repeatedly.

"Mary's going to text me if she needs me to watch Rosie after all, will you reply for me if it comes? If she does need me, just give a shout." She left the device on the table, then brought the tea tray back into the kitchen. "That's as far as my niceties go for right now," Molly said. "I've got to write that paper for Oxford, and do my washing. I'll be puttering around if you need something though." She left him there, as it seemed to be her custom. As soon as she was out of site and clickety-clacking away on what must have been the world's quietest typewriter, Sherlock got to his feet. The first thing to do was figure out who the hell she was, to avoid further embarrassment. A stack of mail (even the mail looked odd!) proved to be enlightening.

Molly Hooper!

Sherlock thought back to his own London. Molly Hooper was a char-woman at St. Barts hospital. She was particularly enthusiastic about helping him on cases, and was wonderfully bright. This Molly Hooper seemed a reflection of his Molly. A doctor besides! Oh how London had changed, and it seemed for the better, to allow women into the medical field beyond status of nurse. It made sense, Molly being a doctor. Molly Hooper in his timeline was quiet and clever, and certainly had his respect. She was studying to be a nurse, which he thought quite a bit of. She'd be even more helpful to him, should she secure her position at Barts. Not that he only thought of how helpful she could be to him.

Dragging his thoughts back to the present, he nearly dropped the stack of mail, seeing what he had turned over. It seemed to be a licentious advertising campaign of lady's undergarments. Apparently, there were coupons to appropriate whatever these ladies were wearing. Sherlock Holmes found himself suddenly wondering if this Molly owned any of these…

He quickly turned the mail over and laid it back where he'd found it. He'd ruin a perfectly good relationship with a helpful friend, letting thoughts like that run rampant. Though he couldn't stop picturing how Molly might look in the polka-dotted number.

 _Good grief._

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I'm just going to hop into the shower. Door's unlocked if you need the toilet. Just don't yank the curtain open like last time, will you? I don't care _how_ astounding the breakthrough in your case is."

Sherlock Holmes found himself staring wide-eyed at this woman before him, the thought of any version of himself ripping a curtain open to a naked woman was shocking. Though perhaps there were insinuating circumstances…though to be fair, he knew he had startled the Molly of his time once or twice at Barts. In fact he'd kissed her on the cheek, when she found evidence in the coal bucket pertaining to a victim before. He'd just been so thrilled. Of course he'd kissed Molly. Who else would think to bring it right to him, who shared his excitement? He supposed he'd be capable of yanking back a bath curtain in the excitement of sharing news of a case with someone.

 _Especially if it were Molly._

Sherlock could certainly admit that that vision was terribly enticing.

The device on the table buzzed. Sherlock picked it up, and after some investigating, figured out how to activate it. He tapped it experimentally. Rows of letters appeared. A quick study proved it to be some kind of mobile wireless cabling device. Ah. How handy!

"Mary does not need you to you watch Rosie," Sherlock called. He tapped out some kind of appropriate message that sounded like something this Molly might say and set the device down.

He wondered if the Sherlock of this London was romantically involved with this Molly. Only one way to find out. Once the door to the bathroom was shut, and running water could be heard, he slipped into the bedroom.

A brief look around gave him the answer he needed: no. No mens clothing in the wardrobe, no cufflinks or ties. There were some masculine looking pajamas in the drawer of the dresser, but they looked to be hardly worn, the same with the one dress shirt folded on top of them.

He found himself rather disappointed, in himself and in Molly. A picture on the nightstand caught his eye, and he picked it up. It was of Molly and himself, longer hair, curlier, but he knew his visage well enough. Arms slung over each other, Molly was hugging him, beaming. Turning the picture over, a message was scrawled on the back: _Proof that I am in possession of a heart, I printed this photograph for us. It was a good night. – Sherlock_

The room smelt of perfume, of Molly ( _his_ Molly) and he realized how much he missed her. How frequently he asked for her help, and no matter the time, she always gave her assistance. He understood suddenly how much the woman meant to him. To say nothing of her assistance in the case against Professor Moriarty, Molly Hooper was the first to bring him a cup of tea while he was working. She'd listen as he talked about his cases, offer her input if she thought it could help, and how she tried to comfort him if she could. The women were one and the same, stretched across time. Social status did not seem to be as much a problem in this time-line, though Sherlock could hardly care. As soon as he got home, he'd put things right between him and Molly.

His entrance to this London had happened when he opened the door to what he assumed was a garret in London. If that was the entrance, surely it was the exit. As he made to gather his things and go, he thought of leaving a message to thank her. Then, Sherlock Holmes got an idea. A terribly marvelous, lovely idea that any impulse to stop himself was swiftly ignored. He headed for the bathroom, to the sound of Molly singing, and water running. Hat and cane in hand, he let himself in.

"Don't you dare flush, you'll scald me!" she called from behind the curtain, then carried on with her song.

Remembering her request not to yank the draperies open, he set his things down, approached the tub, and carefully pushed aside the curtain.

Feeling a draft, Molly turned. "Oh for pities sake- you'll freeze me out you daft-" He cut her off with a searing kiss, pulling her flush against him. The water was warm, and she was soaking him through his clothes. He didn't care. When they finally pulled apart, breathless, he couldn't speak for a moment.

"I have to go." He managed to say at last (not the words he wanted to say, if he was honest).

She nodded, lips swollen, eyes wide. "Okay." Neither one of them moved. "You should let go of me then," she said softly, regretting the words as soon as they were off her lips.

"Oh. Yes."

"Come back, when your case is done, okay?"

Sherlock quirked a smile. "Yes. I will. As soon as I am able." He stepped back at last, and he gathered his hat. "Do you promise to greet me just as I have greeted you when I return?"

Molly was blushing, grinning widely. "It's a promise."

He left, shutting the bathroom door. Now to see that the Sherlock of this time got the message. Grabbing Molly's mobile device, he scrolled through the list of people, finding his name, and tapping out a quick text for him to hurry over. That would be enough. He knew himself well enough, and his feelings for Molly (if this current Sherlock was a replica of himself), that if Molly were to greet him as she was now, he'd never resist. Now to win over his own Molly. He approached the door, placing his hat on his head. He paused, standing for a moment, he looked back at the flat, at the modern conveniences. It was chaotic and different, and Sherlock felt he could very well make a good life for himself there. But there was no more time for thinking, for as soon as he stepped through the door and shut it, he was back in the tiny, windowless stairway. Hooves on the cobblestones below, the shouts of vendors and flower girls reminded him that this was the London he knew. Replacing his gloves, he headed down the stairs, hailing a cab.

"St. Barts please, fast as you are able." Now to find his own Molly Hooper!


End file.
